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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25730530">Flaming Red</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/friskyfliss/pseuds/friskyfliss'>friskyfliss</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Corporal Punishment, Discipline, F/M, High School, Humiliation, Paddling, Punishment, Reader-Insert, Student!Reader - Freeform, Student/Teacher, can be read as roleplay or actual situation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:14:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,371</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25730530</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/friskyfliss/pseuds/friskyfliss</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Y/N has been sent to the Principal's Office - an experience you're not familiar with - for talking in class. Even as a first-time offender, you're not going to be let off the hook without a little punishment.</p><p>The work was written as if it was the situation, but can therefore be interpreted as roleplay, if you'd prefer. Student!Reader (female). Male, OC Principal.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Flaming Red</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please heed the warnings and the tags - don't like, don't read.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s a sensation you’ve never consciously noted before, but the smooth wooden bench feels solid beneath you. You sit, staring down at your socked feet, a ball of anticipation building in your stomach. The corridor’s not fairly well lit, but you can make out your smart black shoes as they hang centimetres from the floor, slowly swinging to and fro. The door beside you has been closed for the past twenty minutes, despite him reminding you to be here on the hour sharp - he’s reminding you who’s in charge, and giving your mind plenty of time to mull over the unknown to come.</p><p> </p><p>You’re snapped from your reverie as the door clicks open to reveal his tall, imposing figure in the doorway. Almost immediately, you stumble to your feet, the schoolbooks once on your lap now clutched to your chest and your head bowed.</p><p> </p><p>“Y/N.”</p><p> </p><p>You look up, meeting his gaze, and see his arm extended into the room beyond. With a deep breath, you walk through the door into the office. </p><p> </p><p>There’s nothing particularly special about the room. On the far side, in front of the window, sits the desk; a large chair on the far side, and two smaller chairs this. The walls are lined with bookshelves, and despite it being the middle of the day, the blinds are closed. You head over, placing your books on one chair, and sit on the other.</p><p> </p><p>He follows you, door closed behind you both, and pauses as he arrives behind his chair. An eyebrow quirks.</p><p> </p><p>“Did I give you permission to sit down?”</p><p> </p><p>Your cheeks flush as you stumble awkwardly back to your feet. You hadn’t even considered that a possibility. Being summoned to the principal’s office? It was all a bit new to you in honesty.</p><p> </p><p>“I like verbal answers to my questions.”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, no.” You stumble out. There’s an awkward pause before you add “Sir”.</p><p> </p><p>“It seems you have a lot to learn, Y/N.”</p><p> </p><p>You stay standing quietly, staring at the edge of the desk to avoid his gaze. Your stomach is awash with nerves and, if you’re being honest, you’re a little surprised your legs haven’t started to shake. </p><p> </p><p>He takes the time to run his eyes down the length of your body and back up again, before he takes a seat in his own chair.  You move to follow, only halting your movements as he once again raises an eyebrow. His silent gaze freezes your movements and you stop, half-crouched over the chair.</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you here?”</p><p> </p><p>You feel fully on display as his gaze continues to keep you pinned in your half-seated position, bent forward with your rear extended towards the far wall. An attempt to straighten back to standing is only met with a fierce glare and soft clearing of his throat, causing you to pause once more. “I-I was sent here by Professor Hargreaves.”</p><p> </p><p>You see him try to suppress a smile. “I know you’re new to this, but shall we try that again?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think I understand.” You feel your cheeks heat up further in embarrassment - a feat you hadn’t known was possible before this point.</p><p> </p><p>“No, I don’t think you do.” He muses, leaning forward to rest his chin on his hands, still not breaking his gaze from intensely scrutinising you. “You see, I am your superior and I will be treated with the proper level of respect. Especially from troublemakers coming to me to beg for my forgiveness.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, Sir.”</p><p> </p><p>He smiles. “That’s better.”</p><p> </p><p>Your cheeks continue to flush deeper. “I was sent here by Professor Hargreaves, sir.” </p><p> </p><p>“I see.” He leans back in his chair. “Continue.”</p><p> </p><p>“Um- I-.” You pause, debating the matter in your head. You’re in trouble - it’s clear you're in trouble. You’re at the principal’s office, for pity’s sake, being reprimanded for incorrect etiquette, embarrassed to the nines, and you haven’t even confessed to your misdeed that got you here in the first place. It’s a risky move asking a favour at this time, but you just can’t think in your current state, all focus directed into the hyper-awareness of your arse being stuck proudly behind you as if on display.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, Sir, may I stand?”</p><p> </p><p>The mischievous glint in his eye causes you to blush further - he’s enjoying your discomfort - but he nods with a grin. “Since you asked, I don’t see why not.” </p><p> </p><p>Once you’re fully standing, he lets his eyes rake over you once again, pausing as they duck beneath your hips, and you can’t help but squirm. “I was sent here by Professor Hargreaves, sir, for disrespectful behaviour.” You begin explaining, hoping to direct his attention elsewhere. “I was talking during her class.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not what I have on my report.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry?” You blurt. You’re hardly one to do anything against the rules, but Professor Hargreaves’ technique leaves a lot to be desired and consists primarily of her talking at the class monotonously for the whole hour. Still, you’ve been brought up politely, so whispering the odd comment to a friend is probably as outrageous as you’d get. It’s not like you were throwing spitballs or turned up in a skirt barely covering your backside, which weren’t uncommon actions among your peers.</p><p> </p><p>He raises an eyebrow, and you can’t help the uncomfortable sensation that washes over you - part-dread, part-arousal. How can such a simple action still have such an effect on you? “Are you saying Professor Hargreaves is lying?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, Sir, I just-.” Well, if the report card suggests you’ve done more, you guess you are suggesting that. </p><p> </p><p>He looks at you, expectantly. “If I’ve done something else wrong, it’s not something I’m aware of, Sir.”</p><p> </p><p>You watch as he leans back, face blank. What’s that supposed to mean? Have you done something else? Is he content with such an answer? Does he want you to continue? </p><p> </p><p>Without breaking his gaze, he picks up a piece of paper from the pile in front of him and extends it towards you. “This is the report I have.”</p><p> </p><p>You take it, beginning to skim the text, before he interrupts. </p><p> </p><p>“Take a step back for me.” You do as he says, mindful of the chairs, and raise your gaze to look at him. “Now, I want you to read it to me. I’ve taken the liberty of rewriting Professor Hargreaves’ report into the first person for you to make things simpler. You should count yourself lucky - it’s essentially a pre-written apology speech.”</p><p> </p><p>You take a deep breath, returning your gaze to the paper and begin to read, aware of how his gaze is fixed intently on you. </p><p> </p><p>“I have been sent to your office on a disciplinary matter, for which I trust you will deliver the appropriate punishment. During class with Professor Hargreaves, I acted in an immature and inappropriate manner, which not only impacts on my own learning and development, but was detrimental to, and unfair on, my peers. Believing myself to be superior-” You break off and look up, but he simply raises another silent eyebrow and you return to the text, blushing.</p><p> </p><p>“Believing myself to be superior to my teachers, I engaged repeatedly in conversation with others in the class. In doing so, I was wasting the opportunity given to learn, and disrespecting the talented members of staff who put in substantial effort to ensure I can progress in my studies and experience engaging, well-planned lessons. My actions were rude and, if allowed to continue unchecked, could escalate into further disrespectful and slovenly behaviour. I accept full responsibility for what I have done, and apologise deeply for my careless disregard of the rules.”</p><p> </p><p>You lower your hands, but don’t look up to meet his gaze. </p><p> </p><p>In your periphery, you’re aware of him standing, and slowly beginning to walk around the desk, towards the back of the room. The silence is mounting, almost deafening, and you fight the urge to fidget just to shake the uncomfortable sensation.</p><p> </p><p>“Would you consider yourself well-versed in history?” His footsteps have stopped, and you can almost feel his gaze boring into you. You’re relieved you ask to stand now, aware of how much more humiliating this would feel had you been bent in two.</p><p> </p><p>“Uh- vaguely, sir.” A diplomatic choice - clearly you’re not a professor of the subject like Professor Hargreaves’, but you got an A on your report card last term. </p><p> </p><p>He hums in response. “How about the history of education?”</p><p> </p><p>“Fairly well, sir.” </p><p> </p><p>“Are you aware of how disciplinary matters may have worked, say, in our school in the past?”</p><p> </p><p>“Um, I suppose people wrote lines or wore dunce caps. And caning used to be commonplace.” Anticipation of quite where this line of questioning is going begins to swirl in your stomach.</p><p> </p><p>“Humiliation, caning, paddling. All good answers. In fact, all good disciplinary techniques with a proven track record of straightening out offenders. I spent many evenings as a young teacher with classrooms full of students writing out lines.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that what am I to do, sir?”</p><p> </p><p>“That is for Professor Hargreaves to decide.” His tone has turned slightly sharper, and you think that maybe you interrupted some monologue of reminisce about ‘the good old days’ as adults liked to call them. </p><p> </p><p>“You will email her an apology once we are finished here, and she will inform you as to the next steps. However, since she referred the matter on to myself, and it is clear from our short meeting that there is behaviour that needs straightening out, I have my own discipline to impart.”</p><p> </p><p>Behaviour that needs straightening out? “What behaviour?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, first you decide to make yourself quite at home, and then consistently fail to show your superiors the proper respect. And let’s not forget your lacklustre attempt at an apology in comparison to Professor Hargreaves’ complaint.”</p><p> </p><p>All unintentional, but you daren’t get in any more trouble - it’s clear you’re in enough as it is. “I didn’t mean to be rude or offend, sir.”</p><p> </p><p>“Didn’t you?” You hear him take a couple of steps closer. “You see, I only have your word on that, and as I see it that’s exactly what got you sent here in the first place. Now, I want you to step forward and place both hands on my desk, about shoulders-width apart.” </p><p> </p><p>Quietly, you comply, lowering your gaze to the space between your hands. “Bend down and place your face against the desk between your hands - you might need to shuffle your feet back a little.” You begin to move, trying as much as you can to remain composed. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s it, bottom out.” He coaxes.</p><p> </p><p>Cheeks flushing, you continue to bend until you’re folded over in half, upper body and hands pressed against the desk and, once again, rear extended towards the back wall.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re a first time offender, Y/N, which I’m going to take into account, but it’s not going to get you off scot-free. I’ve got in my hands the school paddle, which you’re going to get five strikes with on each cheek. You’re going to need to count them for me, OK?”</p><p> </p><p>You feel a swirl of anticipation in your stomach and you almost forget to respond as your thoughts begin to race. How are you going to be able to sit still in class tomorrow? Everyone’s going to know! </p><p> </p><p>“OK, Y/N?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, sir.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good. Unfortunately it’s not the same paddle we used to use years ago, but we’ve our school crest etched into this one. It does mean I need you to lift your skirt for me, though, to help the lesson properly <em> sink in </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>Hands shaking, you lift the back of your skirt and leave it settled across your hips, thoughts still caught up on the humiliation of the position, the idea of everyone noticing tomorrow, the attempted recollection as to whether you’ve seen people squirming around in class before.</p><p> </p><p>You’re snapped from such thoughts by the sharp sensation of the paddle landing on your right butt cheek.</p><p> </p><p>“One.” You breathe out a few seconds later, remembering how you’ve been asked to count.</p><p> </p><p>“Two”, “Three”, and “Four” follow in pretty quick succession, before “Five and “Six” land on your left. By “Seven” your tears have begun to spill, uncontrolled, and you fight not to sniffle.</p><p> </p><p>“Eight.” You cry out, desperately fighting the urge not to reach out your hands backwards in an attempt to protect from the onslaught.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a pause. </p><p> </p><p>“Just two more, Y/N, and then you’ll be free to leave here. I want you to think of this next time you consider acting in a rude or disrespectful manner, and remember why you’d rather not be summoned to my office. You’re to send your apology to Professor Hargreaves’ this evening and follow whatever instructions she has for you.”</p><p> </p><p>Despite the reprieve from the sharp beating of the paddle, your bum cheeks are throbbing, and you can feel the heat they must be radiating. You can only imagine how red they must look, which in turn has your thoughts turning back to the embarrassment of standing, presenting you barely-clothed backside to your principal.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Thwack. Thwack. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The two final hits land before you have a chance to compose your thoughts, and you somehow stutter out a “Nine. Ten.”</p><p> </p><p>When you hear no more from behind you, you quickly reach out to lower your skirt and hasten to stand. You see the principal round the desk, a smile on his face as he tosses the paddle onto the surface. </p><p> </p><p>You can’t help it - you glance down at the glossy hardwood, a detailed depiction of the school crest engraved deeply into its surface. You just know there’s going to be a similar marking amongst all the red on your bottom, and your hands fly down to your cheeks, almost as if you’ll be able to feel it.</p><p> </p><p>The principal’s grin only widens at your reaction. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson, Y/N.” He sits down, opening a drawer and beginning to flick through it, as if it’s just another normal day. Without looking up, he adds “Dismissed”, and in a hurried grab of your books, you hastily leave the office, cheeks - all four of them - a flaming red.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I hope you liked it? I've not written like this before, and it's my first time posting on AO3 (so if it's a nightmare, forgive me.) </p><p>I've been toying with the idea of maybe writing a sequel as to what happens with Professor Hargreaves, so let me know if you'd be interested in reading that. Also, if you have any prompts, my inbox is open for suggestions (though I make no guarantees on writing them!)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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